


[Redacted] Magic

by hisfoolishgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Asexual Sherlock, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 01:10:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11002842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisfoolishgirl/pseuds/hisfoolishgirl
Summary: John Watson had always been a run of the mill army doctor. The only thing about him that stood out was his specialization in magician physiology because performing surgery on people that had out of control magic was the choice of only brave men. Or stupid ones.But he had been very good. Until the injury. Not that he could remember much of that time.Not that sorting that out mattered at the moment. Now, Mycroft just wanted him to twiddle his thumbs as he sat in the middle of London. But - You wouldn’t have asked the Earth to stop spinning now would you? Mycroft might have succeeded at that if he had.





	[Redacted] Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah. First time writing a Sherlock fic. This is probably going to be horrible. 
> 
> But I ran out of Bamf John Watson fics to read. Please forgive me for the drive we're about to take. Desperate times lead to desperate measures.

For John Watson there were matters that he could never talk about. He rubbed at his left shoulder feeling the web of scars he’d gained because of the shot that had gone straight through it. The wound had looked much, much cleaner before the surgery that added the scars. The truth of what had caused it could never be discussed. 

He looked down, and he stared at his hand, a shaking mess. He took a deep, ragged breath. In and out. He repeated. He closed his eyes, and after a third breath he whispered a word that one of his kind wasn’t suppose to be able to speak.

His hand stilled. He opened his eyes, and he shook as he took another deep breath. In and out. He stared up at the ceiling. He couldn’t keep going like this. 

* * *

 

He sat across from a human therapist. He couldn’t met her eyes.

“How’s the blog going?”

He flashed her a half smile, and his gaze finally met hers, “Fine,” He answered.

She frowned, “You haven’t written a word, have you?”

His half smile came back, just another flash, and he left it at that. Her hand moved, and he read the four words her pen marked down. He did so with ease.  _ Still has trust issue.  _ His smile returned, strained.

“John,” She said softly, “You’re a soldier. It’s going to take you awhile to adjust to civilian life-” He managed not to react to that statement. He would have clapped himself on the back, but that would have been a reaction, “And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”

John looked away. That was the point. Hiding. “Nothing ever happens to me,” He whispered. It was also the problem.

* * *

 

John didn’t know why he was wandering around London with his cane, but the only other option he had was sitting around in the barren apartment he’d been given. 

A tentative voice broke through the buzz of his frustration, “John? John Watson? Is that you?” John stopped, and he bite back a tight smile. He tried, his face was bright when he smiled at Mike, but it didn’t match his eyes. Mike simply stared at the dissonance he was staring at.

“Yes, Mike?” He answered.

Mike nearly flinched, “I haven’t seen you in forever,” He answered with a jolly air that was trying to break the chill, “I heard you were out aboard getting shot at. What happened?”

“I got shot,” John answered simply. He adjusted his cane, and he couldn’t met Mike’s eyes.

“Oh.”

* * *

 

How that meant John drinking coffee and chatting with his old university buddy, he wasn’t sure, but that was exactly what had happened, “Are you still at Bart’s then?” John asked, because like hell he was going to keep the chill in the air with a strong bitter black coffee in his hand. It stilled the buzzing. He wasn’t suppose to have coffee for a reason though. The buzzing meant he was aware -

“Teaching, yeah,” Mike answered. “Bright young things like we use to be. God, I hate them. Showing off charms. I think one fool’s got it in his head to try and go behind our backs with necromancy again. Always one in every semester. Just hope we don’t end up wiping this one off the wall again. You always did managed to keep our class in check. Beware the quiet ones, eh?” John smirked. The muscles in his shoulders relaxed best they could what with one of them being blasted and all. It almost felt normal. Then, Mike looked him, “So what about you? Just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?”

John tightened his hand, adjusted his cane, “Can’t afford London on an army’s pension,” Was all he could say as an answer.

Mike smirked, falling for the bait of a new train of course for the dialogue to take. Nothing was normal anymore. John couldn’t even honestly answer a question about what he was doing in town, “Ah - And you couldn’t bare to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

John couldn’t met Mike’s eyes as his voice brought that bitter chill back to the air, “Yeah, I’m not the John Watson you knew.” The numbness returned to his hand. The good hand grabbed the cup of coffee and he tried to move it, feel it. He cursed at humanity for just a moment before remembering that such things were in vain. Pointless, and utterly a waste of time. It was almost a push from remembering-

“Well,” Mike’s nervous voice served as a buffer for him and his thoughts, “Couldn’t Harry help?” He asked.

John barely smiled for a moment. He was grateful that his eyes had still been looking at the currently useless hand of his rather then at Mike. Mike might have seen the pang of bitter pain, but for now he could pass off the bare smile with a hint of laughter, “Yeah. Like that’s going to happen.”

Mike shrugged, “I don’t know - Have you thought of a flatshare or something?” He was trying to help. John’s lips tightened though as he looked at Mike. Mike who wasn’t clearanced to know.

“Yeah,” John answered, “But who’d want a flatshare with me?” Because the best spot to hide was in plain sight, and he really couldn’t tell him that he was more then a retired army doc.

Mike raised an eyebrow, and he smiled, geniunely smiled for the first time since he’d called out John’s name, “You know. You’re not the first person to say that to me today.”

That had John’s curiosity, and that, John would come to find out, was a dangerous thing, “Yeah? Who was the first?”

* * *

 

The first thing John noticed as he walked into the lab behind Stamford was how bright the man working was. Magic had an aura that charms did not. Charms were cheap gimmicks that with training could be mended, shaped into other things. It was life force - hence the danger of ‘the bright young things’ trying to manage a charm into necromancy works. They would literally be trying to shove their own life force into a dead thing, and that was something that wasn’t common, or unclassified knowledge, only taught in the third year of medical school once they’d proven that they’d had the grit and character required to become licensed to charms on other human forms. If they didn’t, then they’d go back to the rest of the world studying medicine the mundane way, and their families would be none the wiser. Neither would the students.

Those that wielded magic, proper magic, in comparison to the charms though were a dangerous lot. It wasn’t something of their own like men with charms. It was something other, almost like a parasite, simply cohabitating with its host. Not another person, but it definitely had its own will that tended to complement the nature of the owner that it was partnered with. It wasn't common and it was hardly researched. What John knew about the matter was all that was to be officially known.

John ignored pointedly ignored the man and decided not to think about the curse the poor sod had on his shoulders with something like that. He looked around the room instead, “A bit different from my day,” He muttered. It wasn’t like he would actually decide to-

“Mike,” The man’s voice was sharp, deep despite the thin form, “Can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

Mike frowned, and John’s hand went to only reminder of Harry he had. Not that she knew he had it, just that she’d left it on his tombstone like a bouquet of flowers. Hardly surprising. He’d been able to smell the drinks when he’d read the file that had arrived in the same package as it. Harriet Watson and her drinking problem had meant she’d be the only one tampered with. She could see him sure, but John Watson, she was certain, was a terribly, terribly common name. Might even cry at the sight of him, but she wouldn’t know why.

“And what’s wrong with a landline?” Mike asked as if he was speaking to a child.

“I prefer to text,” The stranger answered simply. Perhaps Mike had been speaking to a child.

Mike shrugged, “Sorry. It’s in my coat,” He answered with a slight frown, ever the sort to try to help a man out.

“Here,” John answered, pulling out his small memento, “You can borrow mine.”

“Oh,” The man looked him over for just a moment, for one fleeting, glancing moment, and for that moment John worried, once more grateful for his experience in the Army that had beat out careless expressions on his face. Letting that happen under the gaze of a magician was hardly the best of times. They would never know that he saw, and they would never know to look for something when they saw him. Unless he reacted, then they had every right to be curious, and curiosity was something that John needed to avoid though.

“An old friend of mine,” Mike provided as the stranger walked over to accept the offered phone. The taller man’s eyes flicked down him for a moment taking in every detail now that wasn’t just a chest and a head standing behind a desk.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The man asked. He glanced at Mike.

“I’m sorry?” He asked.

“Which was it,” The man looked back at him. The click from the phone sliding open echoed in the air, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” He answered mildly, “I’m sorry - How did you know?” 

A door opened behind him, but John didn’t look. He was too busy trying to trail the faint thread of magic creeping back to the man without giving it away. He adjusted his cane.  _ Divination?  _ He wondered. Every magician was different after all. “Ah, Molly!” The man let out instead, clearly not the answer to John’s question, “Coffee. Thank you.” He handed John back his phone taking the newly offered thing that was being shoved in his direction now. John didn’t pay attention as the girl stood beside him. Death clung to her. He watched her leave. Death was an old friend after all. Well, he supposed he could say that after surviving his one meeting with the gal. Not many could say that then talk about the tale. In a literal sense John couldn’t talk about it either. So instead he simply watched Molly - suppose he had been listening a hair bit - leave.

“So,” The stranger spoke, again claiming John’s attention, “How do you feel about the violin?”

“I’m sorry-” John muttered. He glanced at Mike before turning back to the magician, “What?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” He provided, “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?” His attention snapped back to John, “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

The man was patronizing him. Of course he was. He was doing the exact same thing as John was, only pretending to be looking for a flatmate. Magicians weren’t suppose to have others living in close proximity to them. They didn’t have control of their abilities after all.  _ Not that he was suppose to have pieced that together _ , John kicked himself. He shouldn’t have asked Mike. He should have realized that that was why the other fellow had said what he had. But now? John had to play the idiot. He had to pretend to be normal again, and he had to pretend that he needed a flat mate.

That - was oddly fine to him. Like the tight patronizing smile that was suppose to tell John to leave that man alone.

“What?” John looked at Mike subtly surprised, “You told him about me?”

“Not a word,” Mike answered with those wide, over honest eyes that John knew very, very well from his uni days with Mike. The man was being honest.

“Then who said anything flatmates?” John shuffled about, suddenly reaware of the weight of his cane in his hands. Couldn’t forget about that while acting like he knew nothing while the other man also playing a farce knew nothing about his farce. John stared at the back of the man. He could at least appreciate the best performance of John’s life.

“I did,” He answered instead of turning around as he did something more with the lab equipment before grabbing his coat, “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for-” Ah, John realized, hadn’t even been looking for one. Good. He wasn’t going to be sticking around. “And now here he is, back from lunch, with an old friend clearly back from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

The man was so use to being disappointed in men not following his logic. The magic, made men see things differently. For a brief moment, John wondered if he was even aware of its effects on his life. Perhaps he just thought his ability to understand cause and effect had nothing to do with his divination. Not that John knew for certain that that was what it was, but what else was there to explain what the man was doing but magic?

“Yes - How did you know about Afghanistan?” He asks despite this knowledge because he wasn’t suppose to be one of those with clearance on this matter. Any man would have asked, and if he didn’t and if that meant he’d gained this man - and his divinations - curiosity then - well. It was by all means less then ideal. 

“I have my eyes on a nice little place in central London together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening,” He answers instead. John can barely keep the frustration off his face, hardly trying. For a moment again John wonders. Had he seen the truth already? Was he just playing it off, keeping a farce going between them for the sake of Mike. He most certainly didn’t have the clearence to know what either of them were. John barely did, “Sorry,” The man adds, “Gotta dash - Think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Now that wasn’t a comment that John heard everyday. He turned to the magician as he swept out towards the door, “Is that is?” John asked.

The man swept from the door, annoyed at the distraction from his riding crop John presumed, “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met,” Watson said slowly, “And we’re going to go look at a flat together?” The glitter in his eyes was telltale. 

The man glanced over at Mike, highly amused, “Problem?” He asked.

John did the same. Mike simply smiled, “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.” John knew what the man’s response was going to be -  _ That’s the point. _ After all-

The magician met his eyes, “I know you're an army doctor, and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother that’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help - because you don’t approve of him. Possibly because he’s an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic. Quite correctly I’m afraid.” John shuffled his cane about awkwardly and the man looked away, “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” 

The man didn’t wait for an answer before leaving. But, before he managed to get through the door all the way, he looked back at John, “The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two two one ‘B’ Baker Street.” And then, after friendly reassuring wink, he was off again.

John looked at Mike, “Yeah,” His friend provided, “He’s always like that.”

That wasn’t the surprising thing to John. He looked back at the door at where Sherlock had left. He’d gotten Harriet’s gender wrong, and considering the amount of details elsewise provided - if he had used magic, accidently or not, to see who Watson was… He would have seen that, and he could have easily said it rather smudged over the details of it. 

* * *

 

The next day, John Watson kept repeating to himself that he’d only shown up because he’d nothing better to do. He hadn’t, but he also knew that that wasn’t the reason why he’d come to stand outside of 221b Baker Street. He was stepping up to knock on the door when the cab arrived with Sherlock, still bright with magic as he had been before.

“Hello,” Sherlock said as he stepped out of it.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” Watson said. It was easy to pretend that that was what had notified him as he struggled to turn around. 

“Sherlock, please,” He said with ease as he reached out his hand to shake Watson’s. John stared at it a moment, and pretended to struggle with his cane as he stepped off of the small step in front of the door. That was when he knew. Sherlock didn’t know he was anything other then ordinary. A magician wouldn’t have extended a hand, gloved or not, to him if they knew what he could do with a physical touch. At least Mycroft had been right about John being safe on that front. He really needed some bloody magician deciding to attack first. Still, if Sherlock didn’t know about that or Harriet’s gender. He was too bright not to have good, useful magic. If he wasn’t a diviner, then what was he?

Sherlock pulled his hand back to his side with a slight frown, “Well,” John said as a distraction, “This is a prime spot. Must be expensive.”

“I know Mrs. Hudson, the landlady,” Sherlock easily answered, not bothered, “She’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour,” Sherlock looked to the side, the door. They were waiting for her to answer the door after all, “A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out.”

“So - You stopped her husband being executed?” John looked at the magician with newfound respect.

Sherlock flashed him a smile, “Oh no,” He answered, “I ensured it.”

John Watson didn’t know how to react to that, which was well enough as Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, came sweeping out that very moment, “Sherlock,” She said with fondness, and that fondness was further expressed in the warm embrace John watched.

Well, John only had to presume to the husband had been a not good man. Rather that then think he was about to enclose himself in the space of two murderers.

* * *

 

“Oh,” John said as he puttered about the room, “This could be very nice indeed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. His eyes on Watson, “Yes. My thoughts precisely.”

“Once we get all this rubbish cleaned up-” 

“-So I went straight ahead and moved in.”

John stared at Sherlock. He couldn’t manage words. Of course he’d already moved in - the magician lived here. The man started to sweep around the room, straightening up bits and pieces at a time, “Well, um, obviously, I can,” He cleared his throat. He was nervous. That was not something John had been expecting. He thought it was all going to crash in the planning. Sherlock really had been looking for a flatmate, “Tidy things up a bit.” He stabbed an envelope on the mantle. 

John pointed at the skull with his cane, “It’s a skull.” He asked because focusing on the fact that magician really had been looking for a flatmate wasn’t really something he wanted to think about considering John had never intended to go through with it.  

Sherlock tilted his head, “Friend of mine,” He answered, “Well, I say friend.”

“What do you think then, Dr. Watson?” Mrs. Hudson had asked tentatively. He glanced back at the landlady, and then he surveyed the apartment. He knew he should look at Sherlock, the magi, the mess, and then call it now since the magician seemed to think he was fine.

He started to shake his head, “Don’t have to decide right away of course,” She quickly reassured him, “And there is a room stairs if you be needing two.”

“Of course we’ll be needing two?”

“Oh don’t worry dear. Mrs.Turners got married once,” She said before excusing herself.

Sherlock looked at Watson, and he stared right back at him, “You don’t like it?” He asked. He looked as if he knew the answer already, but John rubbed the back of his head as if he didn’t know the way to answer a polite no, “How do you know?” He asked.

John’s attention snapped up at him, “What do you mean?”

“You’re a doctor,” He answered, “An army doctor at that - of course you’ve treated magicians before, but how do know you should be saying no?”

John laughed, “And what was yesterday if not a straightforward display of divination, huh?”

Sherlock frowned, tilted his head, and then nodded, “I’m not a diviner.” He stated.

John snorted, “Could have fooled me.”

Sherlock fowned, “Apparently I did.” John nodded. He had. Sherlock motioned towards the lone chair in the room, “Please, let's chat. If you’re worried about me-” John stared at the chair for a moment too long, “That’s not it, is it? That’s not what’s keeping you from-”

John glared at Sherlock. He tapped his leg with his cane. “I have a hard time standing up,” He growled. 

There was a small cough from the door, “There’s been a fourth.” The newcomer whispered from the door. Taller man then John with partially silver hair, “Unless you’re busy, Sherlock.”

“What’s new?” Sherlock asked. His attention newly gained by the man’s appearance, “You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something different this time.”

“She left a note,” He provided. He glanced at John. So did Sherlock. He simply frowned a little bit.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Sherlock answered quickly, “Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson,” The man quickly answered, “I can give you a ride-” The man quickly closed his mouth with a nod, “Thank you, Sherlock. I’ll be seeing you there then.” He nodded to John and quickly disappeared.

Sherlock turned to John, “Are you leaving then?”

John raised an eyebrow, “What does it matter?” He asked, “We just met.”

“Do you really think a magician can just get any sort of a flatmate?”

“The government normally-”

“I have a complicated relationship with the British government,” Sherlock answered tightly. His eyes strayed to where the officer had left, “You served in war. Seen many violent deaths?”

“Too many,” John answered.

Sherlock glanced at John, “Do you want to see another?”

“I’m not moving in,” John answered weakly.

Sherlock smiled, and then they were off.

* * *

 

John sat in the cab with Sherlock, cursing himself for getting carried away in the moment, “If it wasn’t divination,” John asked, “Then what was it?”

Sherlock glanced at him, “Didn’t look me up?”

“I was never going to move in, Sherlock,” John answered quickly, sticking to the truth as much as he could, “I didn’t figure you were really looking for a flatmate once I’d realized what was going on.”

Sherlock frowned, “It’s the science of deduction, John,” He answered simply, “Most men see but they do not observe. One can tell a lot about a man from his wardrobe or shoes-”

“And what gives away a military history?” John asked, genuinely intrigued. He almost didn’t notice the buzzing fading from the back of his head. He quickly refocused on it. He missed the first bit of Sherlock’s sentence, and the later bit as he shifted that awareness to making sure the air around Sherlock hadn’t been damaged by his own parasite.

“- That was how I knew about your military and career,” Sherlock answered, “Your phone told me about your brother. It was a gift, an expensive one, but you’re looking for a flatshare. So immediately family, but again not going to them for help? Not close then. To Harry from Clara with three kisses? The expense of the gift says long time relationship so wife it is, but it’s a newer model so the split was recent. If Harry is giving it away then he left Clara - other way around it would have been kept for sentimental reasons. Just the way people are.” Sherlock finally looked away from the window and his eyes met John’s.

“That was brilliant,” John whispered. Completely wrong, but brilliant all the same. It wasn’t like Sherlock could ever actually know the truth after all. John had been shot aboard, something went so south that the government had to cover up what had happened - and John barely liked to think about it - so they’d brought in a man with a natural charm for memory manipulation. They faked his death for Harriet, and then the man they brought in manipulated her memory of his appearance, “But what about the drinking?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly he he’d taken to staring out the window once he’d thought John wasn’t listening, “Genius that bit - The charging port,” He answered with a smile, “Scratches on it from shaking hands plugging in the phone. Many, most likely not your tremor since you’d only gotten it recently if you’re still looking for a flatmate, recently returned,” John stretched out his hand at the reminder of that problem, “Never see a sober man’s phone with them, never see a drunk’s without them.”

“Brillant,” John breathed again, “Is that why we’re going to a crime scene then? What - are you a private consultant for them then? A private detective.”

Sherlock frowned, “Consulting detective. Private detectives are amateurs, and the police do not work with amateurs.”

“And,” John breathed, “You hardly seem as such.”

Sherlock smiled, “That’s not how most people see it. Brilliant isn’t what most people say to laying their life story bare in front of them.”

“Oh?” John raised an eyebrow, never admitting that Sherlock had missed all the important parts in his, “And what do people normally say?”

“Piss off.” Both men sat in the back of the cabbie’s with smirks firmly planted on their faces. Sherlock glanced at John, “Did I get anything wrong?”

“Harry - is short for Harriet.”

“Sister,” Sherlock hissed before a smile, “Sister. Always get something wrong.”

* * *

“Hello, Freak.”

“I’m here to meet up with Detective Lestrade,” Sherlock answered in lieu of giving that greeting any sort of acknowledgement.

“Why?” She asked softly in lieu of acknowledging the ease the DI had had in asking Sherlock back at the flat.

“I was invited,” Sherlock answered simply. John shuffled about in lieu of getting comfortably around the glass they seemed to be dancing over.

“Why?” She asked once more. It seemed to John that the glass was starting to cut someone’s foot.

“I think he wants me to take a look,” And now the partner in was getting a bit cut up as well. Frustration was good at that.

“Well you know what I think about that, don’t you?” She growled. John glanced at her. He couldn’t see a charm like he could magic, but the smell of one was about as easily missed as the light was.

“Always, Sally,” Sherlock answered with a purr as he slide under the police tape, “Like the fact that you didn’t make it home last night.”

She glared at him until John made to follow Sherlock into the crime scene. That had been the whole point of his coming along, “Uh, And who’s this?”

John bit his lip before he could say a word too many. An officer with a charm would know full well that an Army Doctor would have advance training like none other in regards to the arcane. He wasn’t suppose to know that she was privy to that knowledge though. He wasn’t suppose to know that that meant full well that could be brought in for exam work that might fall outside of the general purview of their staffed forensic officer, but that didn’t matter. 

“A colleague of mine,” Sherlock answered without missing a beat, still dancing on glass, “ _ Doctor _ John Watson, Sally. I hope you catch an understanding of that. Dr. Watson this is Sergeant Sally Donovan. Shame that your rank isn’t civilian - in the  _ Army _ I’m sure a doctor would have been rather high up there.”

Sally paled, and she looked at John, “An Army Doctor?” She asked.

John nodded, and in the same military way that was certainly the sort of behavior that Sherlock had noticed and explained in the portion of his earlier explanation that he’d missed, “Yes. Invalided home. Sherlock brought me to consult with him, fresh medical eyes I believe it was. There have been four of these serial suicides after all. Shining record for the investigators involved, don’t you think? Don’t worry, I won’t tell your uppers if you moan to me. I mean here you are on the fringes, so far from the crime scene. I won’t ruin your chances on climbing up the ladder,” John said. Then he smiled. Donovan raised the police tape, and John swaggered off with Sherlock quickly falling in step beside him.

“Didn’t mention that you were currently retired as well, I see,” Sherlock whispered.

John glared at Sherlock. What sort of information was this man privy to, “Of course I didn’t mention it. That was part of being invalided.” Sherlock simply smirked, a very knowing smirk. John snorted, “Charms.” He grumbled, “You should see the ones that get shifted out of the medical school.”

Sherlock smiled, maybe he did, “Ah,” He said as a new man approached them with the same swagger that Donovan had, without the smell, “Anderson. Here we go.”

“This is a crime scene,” Anderson interjected, “I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”

Sherlock glanced at John, “Quite clear.” John answered with a nod. Anderson frowned at the stranger.

“Oh?” Anderson stepped up to Watson, “And just who are you?”

“A friend,” John answered, “I’m here to met with Lestrade. He may be a patient man, but I am not. My patients would probably prefer a well rested surgeon. Which I think will be your fault if you don't let me look at the crime scene. Although - you could also work with Sherlock alone. You two seem to seem to get along well enough,” John turned away, and Anderson grabbed his shoulder, the bad one. John pulled it away out of habit and looked at him.

Anderson glanced at Sherlock, “He's right inside. I will have nothing to do with this.”

John nodded, “Sherlock,” John stated as he shouldered past Anderson. It took a moment to hear Sherlock following him.

* * *

 

Sherlock had met a very interesting man. Doctor John Watson had at first appearance been such a man of a quiet nature, once he’d been given the chance to act with rank he slipped into the mold with ease. It was fascinating. So he stepped back and watched it happen. Even put on the horrific one piece that Dr. Watson had shoved in his direction with simple “Time to suit up, Sherlock.” He was grateful for Lestrade’s ability to keep his surprise muted. He watched as Watson motioned for the DI to take charge, lead them to the crime scene.

“Here we are, Sherlock,” John said with ease, motioning to the rest of the room, “You brought me h for a reason I suppose.”

Sherlock smirked, “Where is your cane, John?” He asked as he swept past the good doctor. He heard the man silently cursed. He made a mental note of that. It was potenially one of the many small footnotes that were building up.

“You think there is something odd about him?” A small voice purred from the side.

_ Not now, Irene. _

He felt a velvet hand cusp his face. This time seeing nothing to match it, “Are you trying to chase me away?” She asked, “Replace me with that doctor man?” Her breath tickling his ear, “That would be a fine explanation for why you keep turning me down-”

“Shut up,” He hissed turning his head to look toward her. His eyes ended up landing on Lestrade instead. John raised an eyebrow. His gaze once more lingered on the DI, ”You were thinking too loud,” He snapped at the innocent man. 

Irene simply laughed, “I know, Sherlock,” She purred as she strutted across his view, naked, “Nothing interests you. Nothing.  _ Poor thing _ -”

Sherlock knelt beside the victim, and he focused on the work at hand. It was the easiest way to ignore Adler.

* * *

 

John stood outside of the abandoned apartment complex, abandoned himself though wildly looking around to make sure he hadn’t missed the man. Sherlock had gone off shouting about pink. His eyes met Sally’s in his searching, “He’s gone,” She provided with quiet ease.

“Who - Sherlock Holmes?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” She answered, “He does that sometimes.”

“Think he’ll be back?” John asked. He settled into a gentle step to stand in front of her.

“Didn’t look like it,” She answered. John nodded. He seemed the sort that he met in uni, the ones that get carried away with a train of thought with the same speed as the real thing. 

“Sorry, Sergeant, missed it earlier. Where am I?” He asked straightening up.

She smiled faintly for just a moment, her manners retained from earlier, “Brixton.”

“Do you know where I could a cab? Don’t really want to walk with a leg like mine,” He added with a gentle smile though still cursing himself for misplacing his cane earlier. He wasn’t the callous sort that Sherlock was after all. He might have played at intimidation earlier, but that was no way to make friends. 

She lifted the yellow crime scene tape, “Main road,” She answered, “Take a left and it will be straight ahead.”

John nodded, “Thank you.” His cane clicked on the hard concrete as he accommodated it, bending beneath the tape.

“I don’t know who you are,” Sally said, “But you aren’t his friend.”

John turned to her, “I’m sorry?”

“Freak doesn’t have friends.”

“Odd for one such as yourself to be using the term freak?” He stepped up close as he whispered, “Don’t you think? So, why do you keep using it with Sherlock?”

Sally raised an eyebrow, “You do know why he’s here don’t you? Not because he’s paid or nothing - he’s here because he gets off on it. On death. On murder. One of these days it’s gonna be that man that puts a body somewhere.”

“Really?” John asked, “Because to me it just seemed like a very bored man trying very, very hard not to be such. I would fear, Sergeant Donovan, for the day that he doesn’t come running to help you on a crime scene. Do you really think you’d find any proof if he was the one that did it?”

Sally swallowed, “You have him pegged, do you? Have you seen the way he preens-”

“I have seen the underbelly of the world, Sally,” John whispered quietly, “I assure you. He does not been the public screen to be see as clever. He only seems to want to be seen by good men and women. And you keep calling him freak.”

Sally rolled her eyes, but she only did such after a wince while he spoke, “You should stay away from him,” She said, “He isn’t any good.”

John nodded, “I will take that into consideration. Until the day he ends up murdering me though, Sally, I must apologize if I do not expect me to act on it.” He smiled quickly, and he turned away from her even quicker. His steps too quick to notice the ringing payphone at his side.

* * *

 

John noticed the ringing phone the employee missed. He turned to look at the payphone up ahead, and it started to ring. John marched up to it. He grabbed the phone, found the CCTV camera, and he hung up the phone. He stepped out of the small box that encased the phone, and he waited for the car to pull up. The driver stepped out and opened the door for him.

“You know,” John said as he got in, “You could have just called me. On my phone, Anthea. You of all people know that I have one.”

She smirked, “Enjoying civilian life, John?”

“Shove off.”

* * *

 

The arcane was something that had long been considered a banned topic to discuss. That fact rested in the history of it. When the world was young and deities still maintained a weak peace amongst themselves, it was freely discussed and claimed. The gods then split, and the world had to make do with understanding what that meant, to be something more then what they were. It returned to the ways man could easily use, fear. There was a war between those naturally born with the skills, charms and magic, and those without it. That is all that is kept in the records because history is written by the winners. The winners didn’t care about magic.

Now, magic still crept in never extinguished by time, but now it was cloistered and carefully policed for the sake of those born with it. By policing it, it was easier to keep it controlled. If you raise a child all their life to be quiet with the example of their parents doing the same such act, you never had to worry about a protest. Those that rebelled, were quickly handled by those within their community. 

That was the world John and Sherlock had both ground up in. Those with the Touch kept quiet and they lived in circles that those without were not even aware off. It meant, that if something, something other then natural, were to come along they would never know how to handle it. The world hadn’t known how to handle John. If they had, they wouldn’t have told him to keep still. You wouldn’t have asked the Earth to stop spinning now would you?

* * *

 

John climbed out of the car, without his cane, and he stared at Mycroft, “I haven’t done anything,” He said simply as he marched much closer to man. He really didn’t like the thought of shouting at the man, for many reasons other then his mother having taught him not to shout indoors, if that’s even technically where he was.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “That is often what a child says when they’ve been caught with their hand in a cookie jar, Dr. Watson.”

John frowned, “I haven’t done anything.”

“Running around with a magician since noon today,” Mycroft answered, “Is hardly nothing considering your condition.”

“And,” Watson gritted, “As I said, Mycroft - I haven’t done anything.”

“He is my brother, John,” He spat out.

“So you’re saying you're the over protective sort now are you?”

“I worry -  _ constantly _ .”

“I haven’t done anything. You can’t lock me up yet.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched into a smirk, “Really?” He said, “I thought you were suppose to do nothing, John. In your apartment.”

“You can’t lock me up in an apartment in London and then tell me that I can’t go on a blasted walk!”

“Actually - I think I can.”

John shook his head, “No,” John whispered. The buzzing was starting to fade in and out, his hold was slipping, “Mycroft. You know pushing me-”

“But you haven’t done anything. Why are you afraid?”

John bit his lip. He could apologize, and hope to appease the man in front of him. He break a little doing that. He knew Mycroft no longer saw him as a man; he was nothing more then an animal in the eyes of the British government. His pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone. He took a deep breath. It was from Sherlock.

_ Bakers Street. Come at once if convenient. SH _

“You’ve known Sherlock for the last twenty four hours,” Mycroft couldn’t keep his curiosity out of his voice. A oddity. John was certain the man had lost any ability to honestly express his thoughts. Maybe he really did care about his brother, “Why the attachment?”

“Because he can’t have friends?” John spat, “Prescribing to the same train of thought as the Scottish yard there?”

Mycroft frowned, “From you, John. Sherlock loves a puzzle, and you are most certainly such.”

“I’m just a man with a very strange heritage,” John commented simply. His phone buzzed again. 

_ If inconvenient come anyways. SH _

“I know the story of how I was injured is nothing that I’m allowed to talk about, Mycroft, and I know that even if Sherlock thinks you’re the British government, it is still a story outside of your paygrade,” John said, quiet. Just like the buzzing. Unlike when he’d had the coffee just the day before, it was quiet because he’d lost that grip rather then lost the ability to hear it. Mycroft frowned, “But, I need you to stop. Don’t worry. I’ll not be to see Sherlock again. Not tonight at the very least. He’ll never know what I am any more then either of us do. Is that good enough?”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella, “As you have said - You haven’t done anything yet. As long as you stay away from my brother - I will stay away from you.”

John nodded, “Thank you. I shall be walking myself home, Mycroft. I do believe you’ll understand if I don’t want to be trapped in a car right now with Anetha. Delicious-” John stopped. He bit his bottom lip and shook his head, “Magician,” He corrected, “Magician that she is.”

Mycroft nodded, “Do as you need to get home, Watson.”

With that permission, John smiled. He whispered a word that his kind wasn’t suppose to know, and he found himself in his apartment. He smirked. His phone buzzed again.

_ Could be dangerous. SH. _

_ I can’t. Something’s come up. _

He turned off his phone. He could feel the charmed student beneath his apartment just returning from his studies. He had to leave. There was a school nearby. It was late. He’d go there again. 

* * *

Sherlock stared at the message. That wasn’t the John he knew. There was something else. It had to do with him being a magician, but not with him. Sherlock rose from the sofa with a start. He couldn’t text the murderer, not without risking them recognizing the number from the website, but he could do some research on Doctor John Watson. 

The moment he hit the enter button for the search bar - his computer turned off. Interesting. He felt a velvet touch on his ear, and he swept out for the door. He’d always been meaning to buy a burner.

His fingers hovered over the keys to send John another text, but instead he dialed the number. He held the phone up to his ear. Inefficient means of communicating, but if he could keep focused on a voice his mind wouldn’t wander and mix with his magic to shape the Woman.

“Sherlock?” John asked from the other end, “I thought you preferred to text.”

“Would you have replied had I texted you?” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock,” John answered, still but hardly patient, “I said something came up.”

“You answered before the first ring even finished,” He snorted, “It couldn’t be that urgent.”

“It’s slow, but I can’t get away,” John admitted, “What can I do for you?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I have a case - not just the one with four serial suicides that you’re aware of - but one with a man that makes no sense.”

“I know where this is going,” John answered, “But please I could use the entertainment. How will you manage to keep what I’ve done to arouse your attention under veiled comments?”

Sherlock smirked, “You, John, are a mysterious man. Why won’t you live with a magician?”

“I’m only going to say this one, Sherlock. Listen closely, but first I need to confirm two things and maybe ask after another as a favor. Those are my terms. Three quick statements, and if answered correctly I’ll give you what knowledge I can. Fair?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John’s behavior matched with the tricksters in fables. The truth in those fables was as lost to time as magic was. Could be a trap, “Are you going to ask for my first born?” Sherlock asked, “Because I doubt I’ll ever have one, married to my work as I am.”

John’s laughter ruffled through the phone, “No,” He answered, “But you are quite the detective.”

Sherlock stopped walking. He stared at the corner store he was about to enter, and instead sat on the nearby bench, “Deal.”

“As a registered magician you have some amount of clearance in arcane studies as they are regulated through the British government. You have clearance, complete clearance to all arcane studies, do you not?”

“I do.” Sherlock answered briefly.

“Your brother is Mycroft Holmes-”

“How do you know that name?”

“Ah, ah, ah, Sherlock - my questions must come first. Now, As Mycroft is your brother, this may be two parts but it one fact in question, consulting detective, if your brother has had you consult on his behalf that would imply you have some amount of military or political clearance, do you not?”

“I do.” Sherlock answered quite quickly. 

“Then,” John’s voice cracked. Sherlock’s gaze tried to stare at his phone in surprise, surely he wasn’t hearing what he thought he was. He dared not to pull it away from his ear though, “Then do you take private cases, Sherlock? Can I hire you as a favor?”

“What’s your case, John?”

“That’s not the proper answer to that question, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered with a frown, “Yes I can take your case.”

“Ask Mycroft for my files. If he doesn’t provide them within the hour tell him that you have my address - I’ll text it to you since he knows it by heart - and you’ll come to me if he doesn’t do such.”

“Why is that a threat, John?”

“Sherlock, I can hardly talk about myself with myself.  I need to know what to me in Afghanistan.”

“Outside of getting shot?”

“That was the beginning,” John admitted, “And outside of the recovery it is best said that that is the only thing that I remember. It is the only thing that I properly remember.”

“Why would I be in danger now, and not earlier?”

“That,” John’s voice was a cutting expression, “Is a matter you can discuss with your brother.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Not much until I know Mycroft’s caved. They’ll lock me up. I will say that I only told Mike that I could hardly afford London on an army pension. Sherlock - This matter is hardly time sensitive though. Please - Keep the files to read later. You have a serial killer out there to capture as well.”

“I understand, John. I’ll be calling you back though.”

“Oh?”

“I think better when I talk aloud.”

“I feel that you did that before meeting me then,” John mumbled.

“Perhaps. The skull is quite the good listener, but all the same,” Sherlock admitted, “Perhaps I’d rather talk to someone breathing. The skull just draws attention.”

“Thanks, dear,” Irene whispered in his ear.

John laughed even louder in the other, “Fair enough that. It’s quiet where I’m at, Sherlock. Call me whenever you need to.”

* * *

 

John was sitting in a currently empty classroom when he was someone turn on the light in the building across from him. He raised an eyebrow, and he felt the magician entering the room. He took a step away as he felt the nipping at the edges of it. There was a small man and Sherlock.

John looked down at his phone. He knew Sherlock not calling had been a bad thing.

* * *

 

Sherlock noticed Irene quieting once he’d followed the man into the classroom, but his attention didn’t shuffle from the serial killer in front of him.

* * *

 

John Watson was a military man, so when he wished for a gun he thought nothing of one appearing in his hand. He took aim and he fired. He let go of the gun, and it vanished like dust being blown away in the wind. The buzzing was back. John ran.

* * *

 

The name Moriarty echoed in Sherlock’s head. “They keep putting this blanket on me!” Sherlock rambled as Lestrade approached him on the back of the ambulance.

“Yeah,” He said with his glance down, “It’s for shock.”

“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock quickly protested. Lestrade smiled.

“Yeah, well, some of our boys want to take pictures.”

Sherlock frowned for a moment and looked away, “So, the shooter? No sign?”

It was Lestrade’s turn to frown and look away, “Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that must have enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but got nothing to go on.”

“Oh,” Sherlock smiled, ever eager to show off. Too eager to notice the lack of Irene egging him, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Okay, give me,” Lestrade said in reluctance.

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon - that’s a crack shot you’re looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all. So, he’s a climatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger though so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel-” Sherlock’s gaze landed on John. The mysterious John and he lost his words for a moment as his deduction settled into place, “Actually,” He whispered, “You know what? Ignore me.”

Lestrade followed Sherlock’s gaze, and noticed John, “I’m sorry? What was that?” He asked, a smirk played on his face. Mrs. Hudson had said his smile wasn’t decent, and Sherlock was certain Lestrade’s jibbing was the same.

He waved the man away though and rolled with it, “Ignore me. Ignore all of that. It’s just the-” John couldn’t be questioned by him if he was in custody, “Shock talking.” He didn’t risk meeting the detective’s gaze, and he started to walk away to John’s side.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade asked. He easily matched pace. 

Sherlock stopped, “I just need to talk about the event.”

“But Sherlock-”

“Oh come off. I’m in shock,” He said with a wave of the corner of his blanket, “See I have a blanket-”

“Sherlock-”

“And I just caught you a serial killer. More of less.”

* * *

 

John watched the proceeding with ease. Really, he shouldn’t have come. He’d promised Mycroft he’d stayed away for the evening, but after strong arming the man with his display with hiring Sherlock, citing the man’s own previous examples of doing such, he knew he had one free night if he’d make it that long before the key got thrown away.

“Donovan was telling me all about,” John said simply as Sherlock simply stood in front of him, “Two pills? Dreadful business. Really. Dreadful.” 

“Good shot.” Was all Sherlock said in response.

Watson looked away, smirk in shadows, “Would have to be over that distance.”

“You would know.”

John’s gaze flickered pointedly back at Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged, minutely.

“We need to get the powder off your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”

John smirked, gaze now comfortable on Sherlock, “Won’t find anything on me even if they do.”

Sherlock stared at him, and John could feel the intellect grinding away behind those eyes, “Why?”

John shrugged, “There was no gun. Is no gun?”

Sherlock tilted his head, “How?”

“I’m not the detective here, Sherlock,” John answered with a quick shuffle and glance at his feet, “I do suppose that’s to be a part of your job then.”

“But there is a bullet,” Sherlock provided, “Couldn’t have been an illusion.”

John shrugged, “As I said. I know when I’m out of my depth.”

Sherlock nodded, “Mycroft was less then thrilled when I told him that a member of the military approached me to take on sorting out your case.” John snorted, nearly giggled really, as Sally wandered by.

“Stop it,” John hissed as she gave him a disapproving look, “Can’t giggle at a crime scene.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock easily admitted, “Really though - this sort of treatment considering your rank.”

“Posthumously ranked,” John whispered, “I’m no longer to be considered the man that I was considering the circumstances.”

Sherlock nodded, “Which means you haven’t been able to read your files have you?”

John admitted such with a tremble of a nod, “I’ve been shoved into an apartment and asked not to do anything.”

“Mycroft kidnapped you earlier, didn’t he?”

John nodded once more. Sherlock raised the crime scene tape, and John easily followed after him, “Dinner?” He asked.

“Starving.”

“There’s a good chinese place on Bakers Street stays open til two. We can grab something there then go back to the apartment-” John heard the door open, and he felt the small wave of magic slide out of the door. He glanced over towards it and saw Mycroft standing outside the car with a dreadful amount of ominous backlighting from Anthea still sitting behind him. Mycroft met his eyes, and John stopped walking. Sherlock glanced back at him and followed his gaze toward his brother.

“Nevermind,” John whispered, “Looks like my times up getting to play human.”

If John had looked away from Mycroft he would have seen Sherlock’s worried glance at that admission. A familiar pain tucked in it that said Sherlock had thought similarly at times before. But, he didn’t. So, he didn’t. He didn’t give a single step towards Mycroft. The man approached them with ease.

“The request has been filed, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered with ease. He tapped his umbrella on the ground before looking at the tip of it.

“I told you, Mycroft, tell me when it’s been approved.”

Mycroft frowned, “It has been,” His eyes glanced at John, “It was simply a formality after all.”

“That was detailed,” John said, drawing the attention to him as he fiddled once more with his cane, “Really worth the drive,” He commented drily, “Could have just called us. You know - on a phone. We both have one.”

Mycroft frowned at the man, “Very clever, John. The way you’ve managed to arrange this.”

“I told you I’d done nothing,” John answered, “You didn’t leave it alone.”

Mycroft turned back to Sherlock, “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“I’m really not,” Sherlock answered, “I would have thought you’d known me better then to say that, considering you’ve known me my entire life.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, “This is on your heads,” He said softly, “I’m not so petty as to stay out of touch though. If you need anything, Sherlock. You know how to reach me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but said nothing before swaggering off. John quickly followed.

* * *

 

_“He might actually manage to make Sherlock into a better man - or worse then ever.”_

 


End file.
